She gave them
tea, thinking, as she did so, of the noisy parties gathered so recently,
during the election weeks, round the tea-tables in the hall. And then
she returned to her own room to write some letters.
She looked once more with distaste and weariness at the pile of letters
and notes awaiting her. All the business of the house, the estate, the
village--she was getting an old woman; she was weary of it. And with
sudden bitterness she remembered that she had a daughter, and that
Isabel had never been a real day's help to her in her life. Where was
she now? Campaigning in the north--speaking at a bye-election--lecturing
for the suffrage. Since the accident she had paid two flying visits to
her mother and brother. Oliver had got no help from her--nor her mother;
she was the Mrs. Jellyby of a more hypocritical day. Yet Lady Lucy in
her youth had been a very motherly mother; she could still recall in the
depths of her being the thrill of baby palms pressed "against the circle
of the breast."
She sat down to her task, when the door opened behind her. A footman
came in, saying something which she did not catch. "My letters are not
ready yet"--she threw over her shoulder, irritably, without looking at
him.
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